We Two by Edna Lyall

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It would be tedious, however, to follow the course of Erica's lifefor the next three years, for, though the time was that of herchief mental growth, her days were of the quietest. Not till shewas two-and-twenty did she fully recover from the effects of hersudden sorrow and the subsequent overwork. In the meantime, herfather's influence steadily deepened and spread throughout thecountry, and troubles multiplied.

CHAPTER XVI. Hyde Park

Who spouts his message to the wilderness,Lightens his soul and feels one burden less;But to the people preach, and you will findThey'll pay you back with thanks ill to your mind.Goethe. Translated by J.S.B.

Hyde Park is a truly national property, and it is amusing andperhaps edifying to note the various uses to which it is often put. In the morning it is the rendevous of nurses and children; in theafternoon of a fashionable throng; on Sunday evenings it is theresort of hard-working men and women, who have to contentthemselves with getting a breath of fresh air once a week. But,above all, the park is the meeting place of the people, the placefor mass meetings and monster demonstrations.

On a bright day in June, when the trees were still in theirfreshest green, the crowd of wealth and fashion had beaten anignominious retreat before a great political demonstration to beheld that afternoon.

Every one knew that the meeting would be a very stormy one, for itrelated to the most burning question of the day, a question whichwas hourly growing more and more momentous, and which for the timehad divided England into two bitterly opposed factions.

These years which Erica had passed so quietly had been eventfulyears for the country, years of strife and bloodshed, years ofreckless expenditure, years which deluded some and enraged others,provoking most bitter animosity between the opposing parties. Thequestion was not a class question, and a certain number of theworking classes and a large number of the London roughs warmlyespoused the cause of that party which appealed to their love ofpower and to a selfish patriotism. The Hyde Park meeting wouldinevitably be a turbulent one. Those who wished to run no riskremained at home; Rotten Row was deserted; the carriage road almostempty; while from the gateways there poured in a never endingstream of people some serious-looking, some eager and excited,some with a dangerously vindictive look, some merely curious. Every now and then the more motley and disorderly crowd wasreinforced by a club with its brass band and banners, and graduallythe mass of human beings grew from hundreds to a thousand, from onethousand to many thousands, until, indeed, it became almostimpossible to form any idea of the actual numbers, so enormous wasthe gathering.

"We shall have a bad time of it today," remarked Raeburn to Brian,as they forced their way on. "If I'm not very much mistaken, too,we are vastly outnumbered."

He looked round the huge assembly from his vantage ground of sixfoot four, his cool intrepidity not one whit shaken by theknowledge that, by what he was about to say, he should draw down onhis own head all the wrath of the roughest portion of the crowd.

"'Twill be against fearful odds!" said Tom, elbowing vigorously tokeep up with his companion.

"We fear nae foe!" said Raeburn, quoting his favorite motto. "And,after all, it were no bad end to die protesting against wickedrapacity, needless bloodshed."

His eye kindled as he thought of the protest he hoped to make; hisheart beat high as he looked round upon the throng so largelycomposed of those hostile to himself. Was there not a demand forhis superabundant energy? A demand for the tremendous powers ofendurance, of influence, of devotion which were stored up withinhim? As an athlete joys in trying a difficult feat, as an artistjoys in attempting a lofty subject, so Raeburn in his consciousnessof power, in his absolute conviction of truth, joyed in theprospect of a most dangerous conflict.

Brian, watching him presently from a little distance, could notwonder at the immense influence he had gained in the country. Themere physique of the man was wonderfully impressive the strong,rugged Scottish face, the latent power conveyed in his wholebearing. He was no demagogue, he never flattered the people; hepreached indeed a somewhat severe creed, but, even in his sternestmood, the hold he got over the people, the power he had of raisingthe most degraded to a higher level was marvelous. It was notlikely, however, that his protest of today would lead to anythingbut a free fight. If he could make himself effectually heard, hecared very little for what followed. It was necessary that aprotest should be made, and he was the right man to make it;therefore come ill or well, he would go through with it, and, if heescaped with his life so much the better!

The meeting began. A moderate speaker was heard withoutinterruption, but the instant Raeburn stood up, a chorus of yellsarose. For several minutes he made no attempt to speak; but hisdignity seemed to grow in proportion with the indignities offeredhim. He stood there towering above the crowd like a rock ofstrength, scanning the thousands of faces with the steady gaze ofone who, in thinking of the progress of the race, had lost allconsciousness of his own personality. He had come there to protestagainst injustice, to use his vast strength for others, to spendand be spent for millions, to die if need be! Raeburn was made ofthe stuff of which martyrs are made; standing there face to facewith an angry crowd, which might at any moment break loose andtrample him to death or tear him to pieces, his heart wasnevertheless all aglow with the righteousness of his cause, withthe burning desire to make an availing protest against an evilwhich was desolating thousands of homes.

The majesty of his calmness began to influence the mob; the hissesand groans died away into silence, such comparative silence, thatis, as was compatible with the greatness of the assembly. ThenRaeburn braced himself up; dignified before, he now seemed evenmore erect and stately. The knowledge that for the moment he hadthat huge crowd entirely under control was stimulating in thehighest degree. In a minute his stentorian voice was ringing outfearlessly into the vast arena; thousands of hearts were vibratingto his impassioned appeal. To each one it seemed as if heindividually were addressed.

"You who call yourselves Englishmen, I come to appeal to you today! You, who call yourselves freemen, I come to tell you that you areacting like slaves."

Then with rare tact, he alluded to the strongest points of theBritish character, touching with consummate skill the vulnerableparts of his audience. He took for granted that their aims werepure, their standard lofty, and by the very supposition raised fora time the most abject of his hearers, inspired them with his ownenthusiasm.

Presently, when he felt secure enough to venture it, when the crowdwas hanging on his words with breathless attention, he appealed nolonger directly to the people, but drew, in graphic language, thepicture of the desolations brought by war. The simplicity of hisphrases, his entire absence of showiness or bombast, made hisinfluence indescribably deep and powerful. A mere ranter, a frothymob orator, would have been silenced long before.

But this man had somehow got hold of the great assembly, hadconquered them by sheer force of will; in a battle of one willagainst thousands the one had conquered, and would hold its owntill it had administered the hard home-thrust which would make thethousands wince and retaliate.

Now, under the power of that "sledge-hammer Saxon," thatmarvelously graphic picture of misery and bereavement, hard-headed,and hitherto hard hearted men were crying like children. Then camethe rugged unvarnished statement shouted forth in the speaker'ssternest voice.

"All this is being done in your name, men of England! Not only inyour name, but at your cost! You are responsible for thisbloodshed, this misery! How long is it to go on? How long are youfree men going to allow yourselves to be bloody executioners? Howlong are you to be slavish followers of that grasping ambitionwhich veils its foulness under the fair name of patriotism?"

Loud murmurs began to arise at this, and the orator knew that theground swell betokened the coming storm. He proceeded with tenfoldenergy, his words came down like hailstones, with a fieryindignation he delivered his mighty philippic, in a torrent offorceful words he launched out the most tremendous denunciation hehad ever uttered.

The string had been gradually worked up to its highest possibletension; at length when the strain was the greatest it suddenlysnapped. Raeburn's will had held all those thousands in check; hehad kept his bitterest enemies hanging on his words; he had lashedthem into fury, and still kept his grip over them; he had workedthem up, gaining more and more power over them, till at length, ashe shouted forth the last words of a grand peroration, thebitterness and truth of his accusations proved keener than hisrestraining influence.

He had foreseen that the spell would break, and he knew the instantit was broken. A moment before, and he had been able to sway thathuge crowd as he pleased; now he was at their mercy. No willpower, no force of language, no strength of earnestness or truthwould avail him now. All that he had to trust to was his immensephysical strength, and what was that when measured againstthousands?

He saw the dangerous surging movement in the sea of heads, and knewonly too well what it betokened. With a frightful yell of mingledhatred and execration, the seething human mass bore down upon him! His own followers and friends did what they could for him, but thatwas very little. His case was desperate. Desperation, however,inspires some people with an almost superhuman energy. Life wassweet, and that day he fought for his life. The very shouting andhooting of the mob, the roar of the angry multitude, which mightwell have filled even a brave man with panic, stimulated him,strengthened him to resist to the uttermost.

He fought like a lion, forcing his way through the furious crowd,attacked in the most brutal way on every side, yet ever strugglingon if only by inches. Never once did his steadfastness waver,never for a single instant did his spirit sink. His unfailingpresence of mind enabled him to get through what would have beenimpossible to most men, his great height and strength stood him ingood stead, while the meanness and the injustice of the attack, theimmense odds against which he was fighting nerved him for thestruggle.

It was more like a hideous nightmare than a piece of actual life,those fierce tiger faces swarming around, that roar of vindictiveanger, that frightful crushing, that hail storm of savage blows! But, whether life or nightmare, it must be gone through with. Inthe thick of the fight a line of Goethe came to his mind, one ofhis favorite mottoes; "Make good thy standing place and move theworld."

And even then he half smiled to himself at the forlornness of thehope that he should ever need a standing place again.

With renewed vigor he fought his way on, and with a sort of glow oftriumph and new-born hope had almost seen his way to a place ofcomparative safety, when a fearful blow hopelessly maimed him. With a vain struggle to save himself he fell to the earth a visionof fierce faces, green leaves, and blue sky flashed before hiseyes, an inward vision of Erica, a moment's agony, and then thesurging crowd closed over him, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER XVII. At Death's Door

Sorrow and wrong are pangs of a new birth;All we who suffer bleed for one another;No life may live alone, but all in all;We lie within the tomb of our dead selves,Waiting till One command us to arise. Hon. Boden Noel.

Knowing that Erica would have a very anxious afternoon, CharlesOsmond gave up his brief midday rest, snatched a hasty lunch at athird-rate restaurant, finished his parish visits sooner thanusual, and reached the little house in Guilford Terrace in time toshare the worst part of her waiting. He found her hard at work asusual, her table strewn with papers and books of reference. Raeburn had purposely left her some work to do for him which heknew would fully occupy her; but the mere fact that she knew he haddone it on purpose to engross her mind with other matters entirelyprevented her from giving it her full attention. She had neverfelt more thankful to see Charles Osmond than at that moment.

"When your whole heart and mind are in Hyde Park, how are you todrag them back to what some vindictive old early Father said aboutthe eternity of punishment?" she exclaimed, with a smile, whichvery thinly disguised her consuming anxiety.

They sat down near the open window, Erica taking possession of thatside which commanded the view of the entrance of the cul-de-sac. Charles Osmond did not speak for a minute or two, but sat watchingher, trying to realize to himself what such anxiety as hers mustbe. She was evidently determined to keep outwardly calm, not tolet her fears gain undue power over her; but she could not concealthe nervous trembling which beset her at every sound of wheels inthe quiet square, nor did she know that in her brave eyes therelurked the most visible manifestation possible of haggard, anxiouswaiting. She sat with her watch in her hand, the little watch thatEric Haeberlein had given her when she was almost a child, andwhich, even in the days of their greatest poverty, her father hadnever allowed her to part with. What strange hours it had oftenmeasured for her. Age-long hours of grief, weary days of illnessand pain, times of eager expectation, times of sickening anxiety,times of mental conflict, of baffling questions and perplexities. How the hands seemed to creep on this afternoon, at times almost tostand still.

"Now, I suppose if you were in my case you would pray," said Erica,raising her eyes to Charles Osmond. "It must be a relief, but yet,when you come to analyze it, it is most illogical a fearful wasteof time. If there is a God who works by fixed laws, and who seesthe whole maze of every one's life before hand, then the particulartime and manner of my father's death must be already appointed, andno prayer of mine that he may come safely through this afternoon'sdanger can be of the least avail. Besides, if a God could beturned round from His original purpose by human wills and muchspeaking, I hardly think He would be worth believing in."

"You are taking the lowest view of prayer mere petition; but eventhat, I think, is set on its right footing as soon as we grasp thetrue conception of the ideal father. Do you mean to say that,because your father's rules were unwavering and his day's workmarked out beforehand, he did not like you to come to him when youwere a little child, with all your wishes and longings andrequests, even though they were sometimes childish and oftenimpossible to gratify? Would he have been better pleased if you hadshut up everything in your own heart, and never of your own accordtold him anything about your babyish plans and wants?"

"Still, prayer seems to me a waste of time," said Erica.

"What! If it brings you a talk with your Father? If it is arelief to you and a pleasure because a sign of trust and love toHim? But in one way I entirely agree with you, unless it isspontaneous it is not only useless but harmful. Imagine a childforced to talk to its father. And this seems to me the truestdefense of prayer; to the 'natural man' it always will seemfoolishness, to the 'spiritual man' to one who has recognized theAll-Father it is the absolute necessity of life. And I think bydegrees one passes from eager petition for personal and physicalgood things into the truer and more Christlike spirit of prayer. 'These are my fears, these are my wishes, but not my will but Thinebe done.' Shakespeare had got hold of a grand truth, it seems tome, when he said:

"'So find we profit by losing of our prayers.'"

"And yet your ideal man distinctly said: 'Ask and ye shallreceive'" said Erica. "There are no limitations. For aught weknow, some pig-headed fanatic may be at this moment praying thatGod in His mercy would rid the earth of that most dangerous man,Luke Raeburn; while I might be of course I am not, but it isconceivable that I might be praying for his safety. Both of usmight claim the same promise, 'Ask and ye shall receive.'"

"You forget one thing," said Charles Osmond. "You would both prayto the Father, and His answer which you, by the way, might considerno answer would be the answer of a father. Do you not think thefanatic would certainly find profit in having his most unbrotherlyrequest disregarded? And the true loss or gain of prayer wouldsurely be in this: The fanatic would, by his un-Christlike request,put himself further from God; you, by your spontaneous and naturalavowal of need and recognition of a Supreme loving will, would drawnearer to God. Nor do we yet at all understand the extraordinaryinfluence exerted on others by any steady, earnest concentration ofthought; science is but just awakening to the fact that there is anunknown power which we have hitherto never dreamed of. I havegreat hope that in this direction, as in all others, science mayshow us the hidden workings of our Father."

Erica forgot her anxiety for a moment; she was watching CharlesOsmond's face with mingled curiosity and perplexity. To speak toone whose belief in the Unseen seemed stronger and more influentialthan most people's belief in the seen, was always very strange toher, and with her prophet she was almost always conscious of thisdouble life (SHE considered it double a real outer and an imaginaryinner.) His strong conviction; the every-day language which heused in speaking of those truths which most people from a mistakennotion of reverence, wrap up in a sort of ecclesiasticalphraseology; above all, the carrying out in his life of the idea ofuniversal brotherhood, with so many a mere form of words all servedto impress Erica very deeply. She knew him too well and loved himtoo truly to pause often, as it were, to analyze his character. Every now and then, however, some new phase was borne in upon her,and some chance word, emphasizing the difference between them,forced her from sheer honesty to own how much that was noble seemedin him to be the outcome of faith in Christ.

They went a little more deeply into the prayer question. Then,with the wonder growing on her more and more, Erica suddenlyexclaimed: "It is so wonderful to me that you can believe withoutlogical proof believe a thing which affects your whole life soimmensely, and yet be unable to demonstrate the very existence ofa God."

"Do you believe your father loves you?" asked Charles Osmond.

"My father! Why, of course."

"You can't logically prove that his love has any true existence."

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Erica. "Not a day passes without some word,look, thought, which would prove it to any one. If there is onething that I am certain of in the whole world, it is that my fatherloves me. Why, you who know him so well, you must know that! Youmust have seen that."

"All his care of you may be mere self-interest," said CharlesOsmond. "Perhaps he puts on a sort of appearance of affection foryou just for the sake of what people would say not a very likelything for Mr. Raeburn to consider, I own. Still, you can'tdemonstrate to me that his love is a reality."

"But I KNOW it is!" cried Erica, vehemently.

"Of course you know, my child; you know in your heart, and ourhearts can teach us what no power of intellect, no skill in logiccan every teach us. You can't logically prove the existence ofyour father's love, and I can't logically prove the existence ofthe all-Father; but in our hearts we both of us know. The deepest,most sacred realities are generally those of heart-knowledge, andquite out of the pale of logic."

Erica did not speak, but sat musing. After all, what COULD beproved with absolute certainty? Why, nothing, except such barefacts as that two and two make four. Was even mathematical proofso absolutely certain? Were they not already beginning to talk ofa possible fourth dimension of space when even that might no longerbe capable of demonstration.

"Well, setting aside actual proof," she resumed, after a silence,"how do you bring it down even to a probability that God is?"

"We must all of us start with a supposition," said Charles Osmond. "There must on the one hand either be everlasting matter oreverlasting force, whether these be two real existences, or whethermatter be only force conditioned, or, on the other hand, you havethe alternative of the everlasting 'He.' You at present base yourbelief on the first alternative. I base mine on the last, which,I grant you, is at the outset the most difficult of the two. Ifind, however, that nine times out of ten the most difficult theoryis the truest. Granting the everlasting 'He,' you must allow self-consciousness, without which there could be no all powerful, allknowledge-full, and all love-full. We will not quarrel aboutnames; call the Everlasting what you please. 'Father' seems to meat once the highest and simplest name."

"But evil!" broke in Erica, triumphantly. "If He originates all,he must originate evil as well as good."

"Certainly," said Charles Osmond, "He has expressly told us so. 'Iform the light and create darkness; I make peace, and create evil;I, the Lord, do all these things.'"

"I recollect now, we spoke of this two or three years ago," saidErica. "You said that the highest good was attained by passingthrough struggles and temptations."

"Think of it in this way," said Charles Osmond. "The Father iseducating His children; what education was ever brought aboutwithout pain? The wise human father does not so much shield hischild from small pains, but encourages him to get wisdom from themfor the future, tries to teach him endurance and courage. Pain isnecessary as an element in education, possibly there is noevolution possible without it. The father may regret it, but, ifhe is wise, knows that it must be. He suffers twice as much as thechild from the infliction of the pain. The All-Father, being atonce all-knowing and all-loving, can see the end of the educationwhile we only see it in process, and perhaps exclaim: 'What afrightful state of things,' or like your favorite 'StephenBlackpool,' 'It's all a muddle.'"

"And the end you consider to be perfection, and eternal union withGod. How can you think immortality probable?"

"It is the necessary outcome of belief in such a God, such a Fatheras we have spoken of. What! Could God have willed that Hischildren whom He really loves should, after a time, fade utterlyaway? If so, He would be less loving than an average earthlyfather. If He did indeed love them, and would fain have had themever with Him, but could not, then He would not be all-powerful."

"I see you a universalist, a great contrast to my Early Fatherhere, who gloats over the delightful prospect of watching from hiscomfortable heaven the tortures of all unbelievers. But, tell me,what do you think would be our position in your unseen world? Isuppose the mere realization of having given one's life in amistaken cause would be about the most terrible pain conceivable?"

"I think," said Charles Osmond, with one of his grave, quietsmiles, "that death will indeed be your 'gate of life," that seeingthe light you will come to your true self, and exclaim, 'Who'd havethought it?'"

The every day language sounded quaint, it made Erica smile; butCharles Osmond continued, with a brightness in his eyes which shewas far from understanding: "And you know there are to be those whoshall say: 'Lord when saw we Thee in distress and helped Thee?' They had not recognized Him here, but He recognized them there? They shared in the 'Come ye blessed of my Father.'"

"Well," said Erica, thoughtfully, "if any Christianity be true, itmust be your loving belief, not the blood-thirsty scheme of theCalvinists. If THAT could by any possibility be true, I shouldgreatly prefer, like Kingsley's dear old 'Wulf,' to share hell withmy own people."

The words had scarcely left her lips when, with a startled cry, shesprung to her feet and hurried to the door. The next momentCharles Osmond saw Tom pass the window; he was unmistakably thebearer of bad news.

His first panting words were reassuring "Brian says you are not tobe frightened;" but they were evidently the mere repetition of amessage. Tom himself was almost hopeless; his wrath and griefbecome more apparent every minute as he gave an incoherent accountof the afternoon's work.

The brutes, the fiends, had half killed the chieftain, had set onhim like so many tigers. Brian and Hazeldine were bringing himhome had sent him on to prepare.

Erica had listened so far with a colorless face, and hands tightlyclasped, but the word "prepare" seemed to bring new life to her. In an instant she was her strongest self.

"They will never try to take him up that steep narrow staircase. Quick, Tom! Help me to move this couch into the study."

The little Irish servant was pressed into the service, too, andsent upstairs to fetch and carry, and in a very few minutes thepreparations were complete, and Erica had at hand all theappliances most likely to be needed. Just as all was done, and shewas beginning to feel that a minute's pause would be the "laststraw," Tom heard the sound of wheels in the square, and hurriedout. Erica stood in the doorway watching, and presently saw asmall crowd of helpers bearing a deathly looking burden. Whitenessof death redness of blood. The ground seemed rocking beneath herfeet, when a strong hand took hers and drew her into the house.

"Don't be afraid," said a voice, which she knew to be Brian'sthough a black mist would not let her see him. "He was consciousa minute ago; this is only from the pain of moving. Which room?"

He saw that in doing lay her safety, and kept her fully employed,so much so, indeed, that from sheer lack of time she was able tostave off the faintness which had threatened to overpower her. After a time her father came to himself, and Erica's face, whichhad been the last in his mind in full consciousness, was the firstwhich now presented itself to his awakening gaze. He smiled.

"Well, Erica! So, after all, they haven't quite done for me. Ninelives like a cat, as I always told you."

His voice was faint, but with all his wonted energy he raisedhimself before they could remonstrate. He was far more injured,however, than he knew; with a stifled groan he fell back once morein a swoon, and it was many hours before they were able to restorehim.

After that, fever set in, and a shadow as of death fell on thehouse in Guilford Terrace. Doctors came and went; Brian almostlived with his patient; friends Raeburn had hosts of them came withhelp of every description. The gloomy little alley admitted everyday crowds of inquirers, who came to the door, read the bulletin,glanced up at the windows, and went away looking graver than whenthey came.

Erica lost count of time altogether. The past seemed blotted out;the weight of the present was so great that she would not admit anythought of the future, though conscious always of a blank dreadwhich she dared not pause to analyze, sufficient indeed for her daywas the evil thereof. She struggled on somehow with a sort ofdespairing strength; only once or twice did she even recollect theoutside world.

It happened that on the first Wednesday after the Hyde Park meetingsome one mentioned the day of the week in her hearing. She was inthe sick-room at the time, but at once remembered that her week'swork was untouched, that she had not written a line for the"Idol-Breaker." Every idea seemed to have gone out of her head;for a minute she felt that to save her life she could not write aline. But still she conscientiously struggled to remember whatsubject had been allotted her, and in the temporary stillness ofthe first night-watch drew writing materials toward her, and leanedher head on her hands until, almost by an effort of will, she atlength recalled the theme for her article.

Of course! It was to be that disgraceful disturbance in the churchat Z______. She remembered the whole affair now, it all rose upbefore her graphically not a bad subject at all! Their party mightmake a good deal by it. Her article must be bright, descriptive,sarcastic. Yet how was she to write such an article when her heartfelt like lead? An involuntary "I can't " rose to her lips, andshe glanced at her father's motionless form, her eyes filling withtears. Then one of his sayings came to her mind: "No such word as'Can't' in the dictionary," and began to write rapidly almostdefiantly. No sooner had she begun than her very exhaustion, thelateness of the hour, and the stress of circumstance came to heraid she had never before written so brilliantly.

The humor of the scene struck her; little flashes of mirth at theexpense of both priest and people, delicate sarcasms, the moresearching from their very refinement, awoke in her brain and wereswiftly transcribed. In the middle of one of the most daringsentences Raeburn stirred. Erica's pen was thrown down at once;she was at his side absorbed once more in attending to his wants,forgetful quite of religious controversy, of the"Idol-Breaker," ofanything in fact in the whole world but her father. Not till anhour had passed was she free to finish her writing, but by the timeher aunt came to relieve guard at two o'clock the article wasfinished and Erica stole noiselessly into the next room to put itup.

To her surprise she found that Tom had not gone to bed. He wasstill toiling away at his desk with a towel round his head; shecould almost have smiled at the ludicrous mixture of grief andsleepiness on his face, had not her own heart been so loaded withcare and sadness. The post brought in what Tom described as"bushels" of letters every day, and he was working away at them nowwith sleepy heroism.

"How tired you look," said Erica. "See! I have brought in thisfor the 'Idol.'"

"You've been writing it now! That is good of you. I was afraid weshould have to make up with some wretched padding of Blank's."

He took the sheets from her and began to read. Laughter is oftenonly one remove from grief, and Tom, though he was sad-heartedenough, could not keep his countenance through Erica's article. First his shoulders began to shake, then he burst into such aparoxysm of noiseless laughter that Erica, fearing that he couldnot restrain himself, and would be heard in the sick-room, pulledthe towel from his forehead over his mouth; then, conquered herselfby the absurdity of his appearance, she was obliged to bury her ownface in her hands, laughing more and more whenever theincongruousness of the laughter occurred to her. When they hadexhausted themselves the profound depression which had been thereal cause of the violent reaction returned with double force. Tomsighed heavily and finished reading the article with the gravest offaces. He was astonished that Erica could have written at such atime an article positively scintillating with mirth.

"How did you manage anything so witty tonight of all nights?" heasked.

"Don't you remember Hans Andersen's clown Punchinello," said Erica. "He never laughed and joked so gayly as the night when his lovedied and his own heart was broken."

There was a look in her eyes which made Tom reply, quickly: "Don'twrite any more just now; the professor has promised us somethingfor next week. Don't write any more till till the chieftain iswell."

After that she wished him good night rather hastily, crept upstairsto her attic, and threw herself down on her bed. Why had he spokenof the future? Why had his voice hesitated? No, she would notthink, she would not.

So the article appeared in that week's "Idol-Breaker, and thousandsand thousands of people laughed over it. It even exciteddispleased comment from "the other side," and in many ways did agreat deal of what in Guilford Terrace was considered "good work." For Erica herself, it was long before she had time to give itanother thought; it was to her only a desperately hard duty whichshe had succeeded in doing. Nobody every guessed how much it hadcost her.

The weary time dragged on, days and weeks passed by; Raeburn wasgrowing weaker, but clung to life with extraordinary tenacity. Andnow very bitterly they felt the evils of this voluntarily embracedpoverty, for the summer heat was for a few days almost tropical,and the tiny little rooms in the lodging-house were stifling. Brian was very anxious to have the patient moved across to hisfather's house; but, though Charles Osmond said all he could infavor of the scheme, the other doctors would not consent, thinkingthe risk of removal too great. And, besides, it would be useless,they maintained the atheist was evidently dying. Brian, who wasthe youngest, could not carry out his wishes in defiance of theothers, but he would not deny himself the hope of even yet savingErica's father. He devised punkahs, became almost nurse and doctorin one, and utterly refused to lose heart. Erica herself was theonly other person who shared his hopefulness, or perhaps herfeeling could hardly be described by that word; she was nothopeful, but she had so resolutely set herself to live in thepresent that she had managed altogether to crowd out the future,and with it the worst fear.

One day, however, it broke upon her suddenly. Some one had left anewspaper in the sick-room; it was weeks since she had seen one,and in a brief interval, while her father slept, or seemed tosleep, she took it up half mechanically. How much it would haveinterested her a little while ago, how meaningless it all seemed toher now. "Latest Telegrams," "News from the Seat of War,""Parliamentary Intelligence" a speech by Sir Michael Cunningham,one of her heroes, on a question in which she was interested. Shecould not read it, all the life seemed gone out of it, today thepaper was nothing to her but a broad sheet with so many columns ofprinted matter. But as she was putting it down their own namecaught her eye. All at once her benumbed faculties regained theirpower, her heart began to beat wildly, for there, in clearestprint, in short, choppy, unequivocal sentences, was the hideousfear which she had contrived so long to banish.

"Mr. Raeburn is dying. The bulletins have daily been growing lessand less hopeful. Yesterday doctor R______, who had been calledin, could only confirm the unfavorable opinion of the otherdoctors. In all probability the days of the great apostle ofatheism are numbered. It rests with the Hyde Park rioters, andthose who by word and example have incited them, to bear theresponsibility of making a martyr of such a man as Mr. LukeRaeburn. Emphatically disclaiming the slightest sympathy with Mr.Raeburn's religious views, we yet--"

But Erica could read no more. Whatever modicum of charity thewriter ventured to put forth was lost upon her. The openingsentence danced before her eyes in letters of fire. That morningshe met Brian in the passage and drew him into the sitting room. He saw at once how it was with her.

"Look," she said, holding the newspaper toward him, "is that true? Or is it only a sensation trap or written for party purposes?"

Her delicate lips were closed with their hardest expression, hereyes only looked grave and questioning. She watched his face as heread, lost her last hope, and with the look of such anguish as hehad never before seen, drew the paper from him, and caught his handin hers in wild entreaty.

"Oh, Brian, Brian! Is there no hope? Surely you can do somethingfor him. There MUST be hope, he is so strong, so full of life."

He struggled hard for voice and words to answer her, but theimploring pressure of her hands on his had nearly unnerved him. Already the grief that kills lurked in her eyes he knew that if herfather died she would not long survive him.

"Don't say what is untrue," she continued. " Don't let me drive youinto telling a lie but only tell me if there is indeed no hope nochance."

"It may be," said Brian. "You must not expect, for those far wiserthan I say it can not be. But I hope yes, I still hope."

On that crumb of comfort she lived, but it was a weary day, and forthe first time she noticed that her father, who was free fromfever, followed her everywhere with his eyes. She knewintuitively that he thought himself dying.

Toward evening she was sitting beside him, slowly drawing herfingers through his thick masses of snow-white hair in the way heliked best, when he looked suddenly right into her eyes with hisown strangely similar ones, deep, earnest eyes, full now of a sortof dumb yearning.

"Little son Eric," he said, faintly, "you will go on with the workI am leaving."

"Yes, father," she replied firmly, though her heart felt as if itwould break.

"A harmful delusion," he murmured, half to himself, "taking up ourbest men! Swallowing up the money of the people. What's thatsinging, Erica?"

"It is the children in the hospital," she replied. "I'll shut thewindow if they disturb you, father."

"No, " he said. "One can tolerate the delusion for them if itmakes their pain more bearable. Poor bairns! Poor bairns! Painis an odd mystery."

He drew down her hand and held it in his, seeming to listen to thesinging, which floated in clearly through the open window at rightangles with the back windows of the hospital. Neither of them knewwhat the hymn was, but the refrain which came after every verse asif even the tinies were joining in it was quite audible to LukeRaeburn and his daughter,

Erica's breath came in gasps. To be reminded then that life waslong and that death was dark!

She thought she had never prayed, she had never consciously prayed,but her whole life for the past three years had been an unspokenprayer. Never was there a more true desire entirely unexpressedthan the desire which now seemed to possess her whole being. Thedarkness would soon hide forever the being she most loved. Oh, ifshe could but honestly think that He who called Himself the Lightof the world was indeed still living, still ready to help!

But to allow her distress to gain the mastery over her wouldcertainly disturb and grieve her father. With a great effort shestifled the sobs which would rise in her throat, and waited inrigid stillness. When the last notes of the hymn had died awayinto silence, she turned to look at her father. He had fallenasleep.

CHAPTER XVIII. Answered or Unanswered?

"Glory to God to God!" he saith,"Knowledge by suffering entereth,And life is perfected by death." E. B. Browning

"Mr. Raeburn is curiously like the celebrated dog of nursery lore,who appertained to the ancient and far-famed Mother Hubbard. Allthe doctors gave him up, all the secularists prepared mourninggarments, the printers were meditating black borders for the'Idol-Breaker,' the relative merits of burial and cremation werealready in discussion, when the dog we beg pardon the leader ofatheism, came to life again.

"'She went to the joiners to buy him a coffin,But when she came back the dog was laughing.'

"History," as a great man was fond of remarking, 'repeats itself.'"

Raeburn laughed heartily over the accounts of his recovery in thecomic papers. No one better appreciated the very cleverrepresentation of himself as a huge bull-dog starting up into lifewhile Britannia in widow's weeds brought in a parish coffin. Ericawould hardly look at the thing; she had suffered too much to beable to endure any jokes on the subject, and she felt hurt andangry that what had given her such anguish should be turned into afoolish jest.

At length, after many weeks of weary anxiety, she was able tobreathe freely once more, for her father steadily regained hisstrength. The devotion of her whole time and strength and thoughtto another had done wonders for her, her character had strangelydeepened and mellowed. But no sooner was she free to begin herordinary life than new perplexities beset her on every side.

During her own long illness she had of course been debarred fromattending any lectures or meetings whatever. In the yearsfollowing, before she had quite regained her strength, she hadgenerally gone to hear her father, but had never become again aregular attendant at the lecture hall. Now that she was quitewell, however, there was nothing to prevent her attending as manylectures as she pleased, and naturally, her position as LukeRaeburn's daughter made her presence desirable. So it came to passone Sunday evening in July that she happened to be present at alecture given by a Mr. Masterman.

He was a man whom they knew intimately. Erica liked himsufficiently well in private life, and he had been remarkably kindand helpful at the time of her father's illness. It was someyears, however, since she had heard him lecture, and this evening,by the virulence of his attack on the character of Christ, herevealed to her how much her ground had shifted since she had lastheard him. It was not that he was an opponent of existingChristianity her father was that, she herself was that, and feltbound to be as long as she considered it a lie but Mr. Masterman'sattack seemed to her grossly unfair, almost willfully inaccurate,and, in addition, his sarcasm and pleasantries seemed to herodiously vulgar. He was answered by a most miserablerepresentative of Christianity, who made a foolish, weak,blustering speech, and tried to pay the atheist back in his owncoin. Erica felt wretched. She longed to get up and speakherself, longing flatly to contradict the champion of her owncause; then grew frightened at the strength of her feelings. Couldthis be mere love of fair play and justice? Was her feeling merelythat of a barrister who would argue as well on one side as theother? And yet her displeasure in itself proved little or nothing. Would not Charles Osmond be displeased and indignant if he heardher father unjustly spoken of? Yes, but then Luke Raeburn was aliving man, and Christ was she even sure that he had ever lived? Well, yes, sure of that, but of how much more?

When the assembly broke up, her mind was in a miserable chaos ofdoubt.

It was one of those delicious summer evenings when even in EastLondon the skies are mellow and the air sweet and cool.

"All right," he replied, "I'll take you a short cut, if you don'tmind a few back slums to begin with."

Now Erica was familiar enough with the sight of poverty andsqualor; she had not lived at the West End, where you may entirelyforget the existence of the poor. The knowledge of evil had cometo her of necessity much earlier than to most girls, and tonight,as Tom took her through a succession of narrow streets and dirtycourts, misery, and vice, and hopeless degradation met her on everyside. Swarms of filthy little children wrangled and fought in thegutters, drunken women shouted foul language at one anothereverywhere was wickedness everywhere want. Her heart felt as if itwould break. What was to reach these poor, miserable fellowcreatures of hers? Who was to raise them out of their horribleplight? The coarse distortion and the narrow contraction ofChrist's teaching which she had just heard, offered no remedy forthis evil. Nor could she think that secularism would reach these. To understand secularism you meed a fair share of intellect whatintellect would these poor creatures have? Why, you might talkforever of the "good of humanity," and "the duty of promoting thegeneral good," and they would not so much as grasp the idea of what"good" was they would sink back to their animal-like state. Instinctively her thoughts turned to the Radical Reformer who,eighteen hundred years ago, had lived among people just as wicked,just as wretched. How had He worked? What had He done? Allthrough His words and actions had sounded the one key-note, "YourFather." Always He had led them to look up to a perfect Being wholoved them, who was present with them.

Was it possible that if Christians had indeed followed their Leaderand not obscured His teaching with hideous secretions of doctrinewhich He had assuredly never taught was it possible that theChrist-gospel in its original simplicity would indeed be the remedyfor all evil?

They were coming into broader thoroughfares now. A wailing child'svoice fell on her ear. A small crowd of disreputable idlers washanging round the closed doors of a public-house, waiting eagerlyfor the opening which would take place at the close ofservice-time. The wailing child's voice grew more and morepiteous. Erica saw that it came from a poor little half-cladcreature of three years old who was clinging to the skirts of amiserable-looking woman with a shawl thrown over her head. Just asshe drew near, the woman, with a fearful oath, tried to shakeherself free of the child; then, with uplifted arms, was about todeal it a heavy blow when Erica caught her hand as it descended,and held it fast in both her hands.

"Don't hurt him," she said, "please don't hurt him."

She looked into the prematurely wrinkled face, into the half-dimeyes, she held the hand fast with a pressure not of force but ofentreaty. Then they passed on, the by-standers shouting out thederisive chorus of "Come to Jesus!" with which London roughsdelight in mocking any passenger whom they suspect of religioustendencies. In all her sadness, Erica could not help smiling toherself. That she, an atheist, Luke Raeburn's daughter, should behooted at as a follower of Jesus!

In the meantime the woman she had spoken to stood still staringafter her. If an angel had suddenly appeared to her, she could nothave been more startled. A human hand had given her coarse,guilty, trembling hand such a living pressure as it had neverbefore received; a pure, loving face had looked at her; a voice,which was trembling with earnestness and full of the pathos ofrestrained tears, had pleaded with her for her own child. Thewoman's dormant motherhood sprung into life. Yes, he was her ownchild after all. She did not really want to hurt him, but a sortof demon was inside her, the demon of drink and sometimes it madeher almost mad. She looked down now with love-cleared eyes at thelittle crying child who still clung to her ragged skirt. Shestooped and picked him up, and wrapped a bit of her shawl roundhim. Presently after a fearful struggle, she turned away from thepublic-house and carried the child home to bed.

The jeering chorus was soon checked, for the shutters were takendown, and the doors thrown wide, and light, and cheerfulness, andshelter, and the drink they were all craving for, were temptinglydisplayed to draw in the waiting idlers.

But the woman had gone home, and one rather surly looking man stillleaned against the wall looking up the street where Tom and Ericahad disappeared.

"Blowed if that ain't a bit of pluck!" he said to himself, andtherewith fell into a reverie.

Tom talked of temperance work, about which he was very eager, allthe way to Guilford Terrace. Erica, on reaching home, went at onceto her father's room. She found him propped up with pillows in hisarm chair; he was still only well enough to attempt the lightest oflight literature, and was looking at some old volumes of "Punch"which the Osmonds had sent across.

"You look tired, Eric!" he exclaimed. "Was there a goodattendance?"

"Very," she replied, but so much less brightly than usual thatRaeburn at once divined that something had annoyed her.

"Was Mr. Masterman dull?"

"Not dull," she replied, hesitatingly. Then, with more than herusual vehemence, "Father, I can't endure him! I wish we didn'thave such men on our side! He is so flippant, so vulgar!"

"Of course he never was a model of refinement," said Raeburn, "buthe is effective very effective. It is impossible that you shouldlike his style; he is, compared with you, what a theatrical posteris to a delicate tete-de-greuze. How did he specially offend youtonight?"

"It was all hateful from the very beginning," said Erica. "Andsprinkled all through with doubtful jests, which of course pleasedthe people. One despicable one about the Entry into Jerusalem,which I believe he must have got from Strauss. I'm sure Straussquotes it."

"You see what displeases an educated mind, wins a rough, unculturedone. We may not altogether like it, but we must put up with it. We need our Moodys and Sankeys as well as the Christians."

"But, father, he seems to me so unfair."

Raeburn looked grave.

"My dear," he said, after a minute's thought, "you are not in theleast bound to go to hear Mr. Masterman again unless you like. Butremember this, Eric, we are only a struggling minority, and let mequote to you one of our Scottish proverbs: 'Hawks shouldna pick outhawks' een.' You are still a hawk, are you not?"

"Of course," she said, earnestly.

"Well, then be leal to your brother hawks."

A cloud of perplexed thought stole over Erica's face. Raeburnnoted it and did his best to divert her attention.

"Come," he said, "let us have a chapter of Mark Twain to enlivenus."

But even Mark Twain was inadequate to check the thought-strugglewhich had begun in Erica's brain. Desperate earnestness would notbe conquered even by the most delightful of all humorous fiction.

During the next few days this thought-struggle raged. So great wasErica's fear of having biased either one way or the other that shewould not even hint at her perplexity either to her father or toCharles Osmond. And now the actual thoroughness of her characterseemed a hindrance.

She had imagination, quick perception of the true and beautiful,and an immense amount of steady common sense. At the same time shewas almost as keen and quite as slow of conviction as her father. Honestly dreading to allow her poetic faculty due play, she kepther imagination rigidly within the narrowest bounds. She was thushonestly handicapped in the race; the honesty was, however, alittle mistaken and one-sided, for not the most vivid imaginationcould be considered as a set-off to the great, the incalculablecounter-influence of her whole education and surroundings. How shegot through that black struggle was sometimes a mystery to her. Atlast, one evening, when the load had grown intolerable, she shutherself into her own room, and, forgetful of all her logicalarguments, spoke to the unknown God. Her hopelessness, herdesperation, drove her as a last resource to cry to the possiblyExistent.

She stood by the open window of her little room, with her arms onthe window sill, looking out into the summer night, just as yearsbefore she had stood when making up her mind to exile andsacrifice. Then the wintery heavens had been blacker and the starsbrighter, now both sky and stars were dimmer because more light. Over the roofs of the Guilford Square houses she could see Charles'Wain and the Pole-star, but only faintly.

"God!" she cried, "I have no reason to think that Thou art exceptthat there is such fearful need of Thee. I can see no single proofin the world that Thou art here. But if what Christ said was true,then Thou must care that I should know Thee, for I must be Thychild. Oh, God, if Thou art oh, Father, if Thou art help us toknow Thee! Show us what is true!"

She waited and waited, hoping for some sort of answer, somethought, some conviction. But she found, as many have found beforeher, that "the heavens were as brass."

"Of course it was no use!" she exclaimed, impatiently, yet with ablankness of disappointment which in itself proved the reality ofher expectations.

Just then she heard Tom's voice at the foot of the stairs calling;;it seemed like the seal to her impatient "of course." There was noUnseen, no Eternal of course not! But there was a busy every-daylife to be lived.

"All right," she returned impatiently, to Tom's repeated calls;"don't make such a noise or else you'll disturb father."

"He is wide awake," said Tom, "and talking to the professor. Justlook here, I couldn't help fetching you down did you ever see sucha speech in your life? A regular brick he must be!"

He held an evening paper in his hand. Erica remembered that thedebate was to be on a question affecting all free-thinkers. Duringthe discussion of this, some one had introduced a reference to theHyde Park meeting and to Mr. Raeburn, and had been careful not tolose the opportunity of making a spiteful and misleading remarkabout the apostle of atheism. Tom hurried her through this,however, to the speech that followed it.

"Wait a minute," she said. "Who is Mr. Farrant? I never heard ofhim before."

"Member for Greyshot, elected last spring, don't you remember? Oneof the by-elections. Licked the Tories all to fits. This is hismaiden speech, and that makes it all the more plucky of him to takeup the cudgels in our defense. Here! Let me read it to you."

With the force of one who is fired with a new and heartyadmiration, he read the report. The speech was undoubtedly a fineone; it was a grand protest against intolerance, a plea forjustice. The speaker had not hesitated for an instant to raise hisvoice in behalf of a very unpopular cause, and his generous words,even when read through the medium of an indifferent newspaperreport, awoke a strange thrill in Erica's heart. The utterdisregard of self, the nobility of the whole speech struck herimmensely. The man who had dared to stand up for the first time inParliament and speak thus, must be one in a thousand. Presentlycame the most daring and disinterested touch of all.

"The honorable member for Rilchester made what I can not but regardas a most misleading and unnecessary remark with reference to therecent occurrence in Hyde Park, and to Mr. Raeburn. I listened toit with pain, for, if there can be degrees in the absolute evil ofinjustice and lack of charity, it seems to me that the highestdegree is reached in that uncharitableness which tries to blackenthe character of an opponent. Since the subject has beenintroduced, the House will, I hope, bear with me if for the sake ofjustice I for a moment allude to a personal matter. Some years agoI myself was an atheist, and I can only say that, speaking now fromthe directly opposite standpoint, I can still look back and thankMr. Raeburn most heartily for the good service he did me. He wasthe first man who ever showed me, by words and example combined,that life is only noble when lived for the race. The statementmade by the honorable member for Rilchester seems to me asincorrect as it was uncalled for. Surely this assembly will bestprove its high character not by loud religious protestations, notby supporting a narrow, Pharisaical measure, but by impartiality,by perfect justice, by the manifestation in deed and word of thatbroad-hearted charity, that universal brotherliness, which alonedeserves the name of Christianity."

The manifestation of the speaker's generosity and universalbrotherliness came like a light to Erica's darkness. It did notend her struggle, but it did end her despair. A faint, indefinablehope rose in her heart.

Mr. Farrant's maiden speech made a considerable stir; it met withsome praise and much blame. Erica learned from one of the papersthat he was Mr. Donovan Farrant, and at once felt convinced that hewas the "Donovan" whom both Charles Osmond and Brian had mentionedto her. She seemed to know a good deal about him. Probably theyhad never told her his surname because they knew that some day hewould be a public character. With instinctive delicacy sherefrained from making any reference to his speech, or any inquiryas to his identity with the "Donovan" of whose inner life she hadheard. Very soon after that, too, she went down to the sea sidewith her father, and when they came back to town the Osmonds hadgone abroad, so it was not until the autumn that they again met.

Her stay at Codrington wonderfully refreshed her; it was the firsttime in her life that she had taken a thorough holiday, with changeof scene and restful idleness to complete it. The time wasoutwardly uneventful enough, but her father grew strong in body andshe grew strong in mind.

One absurd little incident she often laughed over afterward. Ithappened that in the "On-looker" there was a quotation from someunnamed medieval writer; she and her father had a discussion as towhom it could be, Raeburn maintaining that it was Thomas a Kempis. Wishing to verify it, Erica went to a bookseller's and asked forthe "Imitation of Christ." A rather prim-looking dame presidedbehind the counter.

"We haven't that book, miss," she said, "it's quite out of fashionnow."

"I agree with you," said Erica, greatly amused. "It must be quiteout of fashion, for I scarcely know half a dozen people whopractice it." However, a second shop appeared to thinkdifferently, for it had Thomas a Kempis in every conceivable size,shape, and binding. Erica bought a little sixpenny copy and wentback to the beach, where she made her father laugh over her story.

They verified the quotation, and by and by Erica began to read thebook. On the very first page she came to words which made herpause and relapse into a deep reverie.

"But he who would fully and feelingly understand the words ofChrist, must study to make his whole life conformable to that ofChrist."

The thought linked itself in her mind with some words of JohnStuart Mill's which she had heard quoted till she was almost wearyof them.

"Nor even now would it be easy, even for an unbeliever, to find abetter translation for the rule of virtue from the abstract intothe concrete, than to endeavor so to live that Christ would approveour life."

While she was still musing, a sound of piteous crying attracted hernotice. Looking up she saw a tiny child wandering along the beach,trailing a wooden spade after her, and sobbing as if her heartwould break. In a moment Erica was beside her coaxing andconsoling, but at last, finding it impossible to draw forth anintelligible word from the sobs and tears, she took the littlething in her arms and carried her to her father. Raeburn was agreat child lover, and had a habit of carrying goodies in hispocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children with whom hewas brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, whichrestored the small maiden's serenity for a minute.

"She must have lost her way," he said, glancing from the lovelylittle tear-stained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved handsof the little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presentlyshe volunteered a remark.

"Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone. Dolly ran away."

"We will come and look for him," said Erica, "but you must stopcrying, and you know your father will be sure to come and look foryou"

At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as ifexpecting to see him close by.

"He isn't there," she said, piteously.

"Come and let us look for him," said Erica.

Dolly jumped up, thrust her little hand into Erica's, and toiled upthe steep beach. They had reached the road, and Erica paused fora moment, wondering which direction they had better take, when avoice behind her made her start.

"Why Dorothy little one we've been hunting for you everywhere!"

Dolly let go Erica's hand, and with a glad cry rushed into the armsof a tall, dark, rather foreign-looking man, who caught her up andheld her closely.

He turned to Erica and thanked her very warmly for her help. Ericathought his face the noblest she had ever seen.

A favorite pastime with country children is to watch the gradualgrowth of the acorn into the oak tree. They will suspend the acornin a glass of water and watch the slow progress during long months. First one tiny white thread is put forth, then another, until atlength the glass is almost filled with a tangle of white fibers, asturdy little stem raises itself up, and the baby tree, if it is tolive, must be at once transplanted into good soil. The process maybe botanically interesting, but there is something a little sicklyabout it, too there is a feeling that, after all, the acorn wouldhave done better in its natural ground hidden away in darkness.

And, if we have this feeling with regard to vegetable growth, howmuch more with regard to spiritual growth! To attempt to set upthe gradually awakening spirit in an apparatus where it might bethe observed of all observers would be at once repulsive andpresumptuous. Happily, it is impossible. We may trace influencesand suggestions, just as we may note the rain or drought, the heator cold that affect vegetable growth, but the actual birth is everhidden.

To attempt even to shadow forth Erica's growth during the next yearwould be worse than presumptuous. As to her outward life it wasnot greatly changed, only intensified. October always began theirbusiest six months. There was the night school at which she wasable to work again indefatigably. There were lectures to beattended. Above all there was an ever-increasing amount of work tobe done for her father. In all the positive and constructive sideof secularism, in all the efforts made by it to better humanity,she took an enthusiastic share. Naturally she did not see so muchof Charles Osmond now that she was strong again. In the press ofbusiness, in the hard, every-day life there was little time fordiscussion. They met frequently, but never for one of their longtete-a-tetes. Perhaps Erica purposely avoided them. She wasstrangely different now from the little impetuous girl who had cometo his study years ago, trembling with anger at the ladysuperintendent's insult. Insults had since then, alas, become sofamiliar to her, that she had acquired a sort of patient dignity ofendurance, infinitely sad to watch in such a young girl.

One morning in early June, just a year after the memorable HydePark meeting, Charles Osmond happened to be returning from thedeath bed of one of his parishioners when, at the corner ofGuilford Square, he met Erica. It might have been in part thecontrast with the sad and painful scene he had just quitted, but hethought she had never before looked so beautiful. Her face seemedto have taken to itself the freshness and the glow of the summermorning.

"You are early abroad," he said, feeling older and grayer and moretired than ever as he paused to speak to her.

"I am off to the museum to read," she said, "I like to get there bynine, then you don't have to wait such an age for your books; Ican't bear waiting."

"What are you at work upon now?"

"Oh, today for the last time I am going to hunt up particularsabout Livingstone. Hazeldine was very anxious that a series ofpapers on his life should be written for our people. What a grandfellow he was!"

"I heard a characteristic anecdote of him the other day," saidCharles Osmond. "He was walking beside one of the African lakeswhich he had discovered, when suddenly there dawned on him a newmeaning to long familiar words: 'The blood of Christ,' heexclaimed. 'That must be Charity! The blood of Christ that mustbe Charity!' A beautiful thought, too seldom practically taught."

Erica looked grave.

"Characteristic, certainly, of his broad-heartedness, but I don'tthink that anecdote will do for the readers of the 'Idol-Breaker.'" Then, looking up at Charles Osmond, she added in a rather lowertone: "Do you know, I had no idea when I began what a difficulttask I had got. I thought in such an active life as that therewould be little difficulty in keeping the religious part away fromthe secular, but it is wonderful how Livingstone contrives to mixthem up."

"You see, if Christianity be true, it must, as you say, 'mix up'with everything. There should be no rigid distinction betweensecular and religious," said Charles Osmond.

"If it is true," said Erica, suddenly, and with seemingirrelevance, "then sooner or later we must learn it to be so. Truth MUST win in the end. But it is worse to wait for perfectcertainty than for books at the museum," she added, laughing. "Itis five minutes to nine I shall be late."

Charles Osmond walked home thoughtfully; the meeting had somehowcheered him.

"Absolute conviction that truth must out that truth must makeitself perceptible. I've not often come across a more beautifulfaith than that. Yes, little Undine, right you are. 'Ye shallknow the truth, and the truth shall make you free.' Here or there,here or there

"'All things come round to him who will but wait.'

There's one for yourself, Charles Osmond. None of your hurryingand meddling now, old man; you've just got to leave it to yourbetters."

Soliloquizing after this fashion he reached home, and was not sorryto find his breakfast awaiting him, for he had been up the greaterpart of the night.

The great domed library of the British Museum had become veryhome-like to Erica, it was her ideal of comfort; she went therewhenever she wanted quiet, for in the small and crowded lodgingsshe could never be secure from interruptions, and interruptionsresulted in bad work. There was something, too, in the atmosphereof the museum which seemed to help her. She liked the perfectstillness, she liked the presence of all the books. Above all,too, she liked the consciousness of possession. There was nonarrow exclusiveness about this place, no one could look askance ather here. The place belonged to the people, and therefore belongedto her; she heretic and atheist as she was had as much share in theownership as the highest in the land. She had her own peculiarnook over by the encyclopedias, and, being always an early comer,seldom failed to secure her own particular chair and desk.

On this morning she took her place, as she had done hundreds oftimes before, and was soon hard at work. She was finishing herlast paper on Livingstone when a book she had ordered was depositedon her desk by one of the noiseless attendants. She wanted it toverify one or two dates, and she half thought she would try to huntup Charles Osmond's anecdote. In order to write her series ofpapers, she had been obliged to study the character of the greatexplorer pretty thoroughly. She had always been able to see thenobility even of those differing most widely from herself in pointof creed, and the great beauty of Livingstone's character hadimpressed her very much. Today she happened to open on an entry inhis journal which seemed particularly characteristic of the man. He was in great danger from the hostile tribes at the union of theZambesi and Loangwa, and there was something about his spontaneousutterance which appealed very strongly to Erica.

"Felt much turmoil of spirit in view of having all my plans for thewelfare of this great region and teeming population knocked on thehead by savages tomorrow. But I read that Jesus came and said:'All power is given unto me in Heaven and in earth. Go yetherefore and teach all nations, and lo! I am with you always, evenunto the end of the world.' It is the word of a gentleman of themost sacred and strictest honor, and there's an end on't. I willnot cross furtively by night as I intended . . . Nay, verily, Ishall take observations for latitude and longitude tonight, thoughthey may be the last."

The courage, the daring, the perseverance, the intense faith of theman shone out in these sentences. Was it indeed a delusion, suchpractical faith as that?

Blackness of darkness seemed to hem her in. She struggled throughit once more by the one gleam of certainty which had come to her inthe past year. Truth must be self-revealing. Sooner or later, ifshe were honest, if she did not shut her mind deliberately up withthe assurance "You have thought out these matters fully and fairly;enough! Let us now rest content" and if she were indeed a true"Freethinker," she MUST know. And even as that conviction returnedto her the words half quaint, half pathetic, came to her mind: "Itis the word of a gentleman of the most sacred and strictest honor,and there's an end on't."

Yes, there would "be an end on't," if she could feel sure that he,too, was not deluded.

She turned over the pages of the book, and toward the end found acopy of the inscription on Livingstone's tomb. Her eye fell on thewords: "And other sheep I have which are not of this fold; themalso I must bring, and they shall hear My voice."

Somehow the mention of the lost sheep brought to her mind thelittle lost child on the beach at Codrington Dolly, who had "puttedon" her own hat, who had wanted to be independent and to dig byherself. She had run away from home, and could not find the wayback. What a steep climb they had had up the beach how the littlething's tiny feet had slipped and stumbled over the stones, andjust when they were most perplexed, the father had found them.

Exactly how it all came to her Erica never knew, nor could she everput into words the story of the next few moments. When "God'sgreat sunrise" finds us out we have need of something higher thanhuman speech there ARE no words for it. At the utmost she couldonly say that it was like coming out of the twilight, that itseemed as if she were immersed in a great wave of all pervadinglight.

All in a moment the Christ who had been to her merely a noblecharacter of ancient history seemed to become to her the most realand living of all living realities. Even her own existence seemedto fade into a vague and misty shadow in comparison with theintensity of this new consciousness this conviction of His beingwhich surrounded her which she knew, indeed, to be "way, and truth,and life." They shall hear My voice." In the silence of waiting,in the faithfulness of honest searching, Erica for the first timein her life heard it. Yes, she had been right truth wasself-revealing. A few minutes ago those words had been to her anunfulfilled, a vain promise the speaker, broad-hearted and lovingas he was, had doubtless been deluded. But now the voice spoke toher, called her by name, told her what she wanted.

"Dolly," became to her a parable of life. She had been like thatlittle child; for years and years she had been toiling up overrough stones and slippery pebbles, but at last she had heard thevoice. Was this the coming to the Father?

That which often appears sudden and unaccountable is, if we did butknow it, a slow, beautiful evolution. It was now very nearly sevenyears since the autumn afternoon when the man "too nice to be aclergyman," and "not a bit like a Christian," had come to Erica'shome, had shown her that at least one of them practiced theuniversal brotherliness which almost all preached. It was nearlyseven years since words of absolute conviction, words of love andpower, had first sounded forth from Christian lips in her father'slecture hall, and had awakened in her mind that miserablyuncomfortable question "supposing Christianity should be true?"

All the most beautiful influences are quiet; only the destructiveagencies, the stormy wind, the heavy rain and hail, are noisy. Love of the deepest sort is wordless, the sunshine steals downsilently, the dew falls noiselessly, and the communion of spiritwith spirit is calmer and quieter than anything else in the worldquiet as the spontaneous turning of the sunflower to the sun whenthe heavy clouds have passed away, and the light and warmth revealthemselves. The subdued rustle of leaves, the hushed footstepssounded as usual in the great library, but Erica was beyond theperception of either place or time.

Presently she was recalled by the arrival of another student, whotook the chair next to hers a little deformed man, with a facewhich looked prematurely old, and sad, restless eyes. A few hoursbefore she would have regarded him with a sort of shudderingcompassion; now with the compassion there came to her the thoughtof compensation which even here and now might make the poor fellowhappy. Was he not immortal? Might he not here and now learn whatshe had just learned, gain that unspeakable joy? And might not theknowledge go on growing and increasing forever? She took up herpen once more, verified the dates, rolled up her manuscript, andwith one look at Livingstones's journal, returned it to the clerkand left the library.

It was like coming into a new world; even dingy Bloomsbury seemedbeautiful. Her face was so bright, so like the face of a happychild, that more than one passer-by was startled by it, lifted fora moment from sordid cares into a purer atmosphere. She felt alonging to speak to some one who would understand her newhappiness. She had reached Guilford Square, and looked doubtfullyacross to the Osmonds' house. They would understand. But no shemust tell her father first. And then, with a fearful pang, sherealized what her new conviction meant. It meant bringing thesword into her father's house; it meant grieving him with alife-long grief; it meant leaving the persecuted minority and goingover to the triumphant majority; it meant unmitigated pain to allthose she loved best.

Erica had had her full share of pain, but never had she knownanything so agonizing as that moment's sharp revulsion. Mechanically she walked on until she reached home; nobody was in. She looked into the little sitting room but, only Friskarina satpurring on the rug. The table was strewn with the Saturday papers;the midday post had just come. She turned over the letters andfound one for herself in her father's handwriting. It was the onething needed to complete the realization of her pain. She snatchedit up with a stifled sob, ran upstairs to her room, and threwherself down on the bed in silent agony.

A new joy had come to her which her father could not share; a joywhich he would call a delusion, which he spent a great part of hislife in combating. To tell him that she was convinced of the truthof Christianity why, it would almost break his heart.

And yet she must inflict this terrible pain. Her nature was fartoo noble to have dreamed for a single instant of temporizing, ofkeeping her thoughts to herself. A Raeburn was not likely to faileither in courage or in honesty; but with her courage and honesty,Erica had the violin-like sensitiveness of nature which EricHaeberlein had noticed even in her childhood. She saw in thefuture all the pain she must bring to her father, intensified byher own sensitiveness. She knew so well what her feelings wouldhave been but a short time ago, if any one she greatly loved had"fallen back" into Christianity. How could she tell him? HowCOULD she!

Yet it was a thing which must be done. Should she write to him? No, the letter might reach him when he was tired and worried yet,to speak would be more painful.

She got up and went to the window, and let the summer wind blow onher heated forehead. The world had seemed to her just before oneglorious presence-chamber full of sunshine and rejoicing. Butalready the shadow of a life-long pain had fallen on her heart. A revealed Christ meant also a revealed cross, and a right heavyone.

It was only by degrees that she grew strong again, andLivingstone's text came back to her once more, "I am with youalways."

By and by she opened her father's letter. It ran as follows:

"I have just remembered that Monday will be your birthday. Let usspend it together, little son Erica. A few days at Codringtonwould do us both good, and I have a tolerably leisure week. If youcan come down on Saturday afternoon, so much the better. I willmeet you there, if you will telegraph reply as soon as you getthis. I have three lectures at Helmstone on Sunday, but you willprobably prefer a quiet day by the sea. Bring me Westcott's newbook, and you might put in the chisel and hammer. We will do alittle geologizing for the professor, if we have time. Meetinghere last night a great success. Your loving father, LukeRaeburn."

"He is only thinking how he can give me pleasure," sighed Erica. "And I have nothing to give him but pain."

She went at once, however, for the "Bradshaw," and looked out theafternoon trains to Codrington.

CHAPTER XX. Storm

And seems she mid deep silence to a strainTo listen, which the soul alone can know,Saying: "Fear naught, for Jesus came on earth,Jesus of endless joys the wide, deep sea,To ease each heavy load of mortal birth.His waters ever clearest, sweetest beTo him who in a lonely bark drifts forthOn His great deeps of goodness trustfully. From Vittoria Colonna

Codrington was one of the very few sea-side places within fairlyeasy reach of London which had not been vulgarized into an ordinarywatering place. It was a primitive little place with one good,old-established hotel, and a limited number of villas and lodginghouses, which only served as a sort of ornamental fringe to thepicturesque little fishing town.

The fact was that it was just midway between two large anddeservedly popular resorts, and so it had been overlooked, and tothe regret of the thrifty inhabitants and the satisfaction of thevisitors who came there for quiet, its peaceful streets and itsstony beach were never invaded by excursionists. No cockneys camedown for the Sunday to eat shrimps; the shrimps were sent away bytrain to the more favored watering places, and the Codrington shopkeepers shook their heads and gave up expecting to make a fortunein such a conservative little place. Erica said it reminded her ofthe dormouse in "Alice In Wonderland," tyrannized over by thehatter on one side and the March hare on the other, and eventuallyput head foremost into the teapot. Certainly Helmstone on the eastand Westport on the west had managed to eclipse it altogether, andits peaceful sleepiness made the dormouse comparison by no meansinapt.

It all looked wonderfully unchanged as she walked from the stationthat summer afternoon with her father. The square, gray tower ofSt. Oswald's Church, the little, winding, irregular streets, thevery shop windows seemed quite unaltered, while at every turnfamiliar faces came into sight. The shrewd old sailor with thetelescope, the prim old lady at the bookseller's, who hadpronounced the "Imitation of Christ" to be quite out of fashion,the sturdy milkman, with white smock-frock, and bright pailsfastened to a wooden yoke, and the coast-guardsman, who was alwayswhistling "Tom Bowling."

The sea was as calm as a mill pond; Raeburn suggested an hour ortwo on the water and Erica, who was fond of boating, gladlyassented. She had made up her ind not to speak to her father thatevening; he had a very hard day's work before him on the Sunday;they must have these few hours in peace. She did not in the leastdread any subject coming up which might put her into difficulty,for, on the rare days when her father allowed himself anyrecreation, he entirely banished all controversial topics from hismind. He asked no single question relating to the work or tobusiness of any kind, but gave himself up to the enjoyment of amuch-needed rest and relaxation. He seemed in excellent spirits,and Erica herself would have been rapturously happy if she had notbeen haunted by the thought of the pain that awaited him. She knewthat this was the last evening she and her father should ever spendtogether in the old perfect confidence; division the most painfulof all divisions lay before them.

The next day she was left to herself. She would not go to the oldgray-towered church, though as an atheist she had gone to one ortwo churches to look and listen, she felt that she could nothonorably go as a worshiper till she had spoken to her father. Soshe wandered about on the shore, and in the restful quiet learnedmore and grew stronger, and conquered the dread of the morrow. Shedid not see her father again that day for he could not get backfrom Helmstone till a late train, and she had promised not to situp for him.

The morning of her twenty-third birthday was bright and sunshiny;she had slept well, but awoke with the oppressive consciousnessthat a terrible hard duty lay before her. When she came down therewas a serious look in her eyes which did not escape Raeburn's keenobservation. He was down before her, and had been out already, forhe had managed somehow to procure a lovely handful of red and whiteroses and mignonette.

"All good wishes for your birthday, and 'sweets to the sweet' assome one remarked on a more funereal occasion," he said, stoopingto kiss her. "Dear little son Eric, it is very jolly to have youto myself for once. No disrespect to Aunt Jean and old Tom, buttwo is company." "What lovely flowers!" exclaimed Erica.! "Howgood of you! Where did they come from?"

"I made love to old Nicolls, the florist, to let me gather thesemyself; he was very anxious to make a gorgeous arrangement done upin white paper with a lace edge, and thought me a fearful Goth forpreferring this disorderly bunch."

They sat down to breakfast; afterward the morning papers came in,and Raeburn disappeared behind the "Daily Review," while theservant cleared the table. Erica stood by the open French window;she knew that in a few minutes she must speak, and how to get whatshe had to say into words she did not know. Her heart beat so fastthat she felt almost choked. In a sort of dream of pain shewatched the passers-by happy looking girls going down to bathe,children with spades and pails. Everything seemed so tranquil, soordinary while before her lay a duty which must change her wholeworld.

"Not much news," said Raeburn, coming toward her as the servantleft the room. "For dullness commend me to a Monday paper! Well,Eric, how are we to spend your twenty-third birthday? To thinkthat I have actually a child of twenty-three! Why, I ought to feelan old patriarch, and, in spite of white hair and life-longbadgering, I don't, you know. Come, what shall we do. Where wouldyou like to go?"

"Father," said Erica, "I want first to have a talk with you. I--Ihave something to tell you."

There was no longer any mistaking that the seriousness meant somekind of trouble. Raeburn put his arm round her.

"Why, my little girl," he said, tenderly. "You are trembling allover. What is the matter?"

"The matter is that what I have to say will pain you, and it halfkills me to do that. But there is no choice tell you I must. Youwould not wish me not to be true, not to be honest."

Utter perplexity filled Raeburn's mind. What phantom trouble wasthreatening him? Had she been commissioned to tell him of someuntoward event? Some business calamity? Had she fallen in lovewith some one he could not permit her to marry? He lookedquestioningly at her, but her expression only perplexed him stillmore; she was trembling no longer, and her eyes were clear andbright, there was a strong look about her whole face.

"Father," she said, quietly, "I have learned to believe in JesusChrist."

He wrenched away his arm; he started back from her as if she hadstabbed him. For a minute he looked perfectly dazed.

At last, after a silence which seemed to each of them age-long, hespoke in the agitated voice of one who has just received a greatblow.

"Do you know what you are saying, Erica? Do you know what such aconfession as you have made will involve? Do you mean that youaccept the whole of Christ's teaching?

"Yes," she replied, firmly, "I do."

"You intend to turn Christian?"

"Yes, to try to."

"How long have you and Mr. Osmond been concocting this?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Erica, terribly wounded by histone.

"Did he send you down here to tell me?"

"Mr. Osmond knows nothing about it," said Erica. "How could I tellany one before you, father?"

Raeburn was touched by this. He took several turns up and down theroom before speaking again, but the more he grasped the idea thedeeper grew his grief and the hotter his anger. He was a man ofiron will, however, and he kept both under. When at length he didspeak, his voice was quiet and cold and repressed.

"Sit down," he said, motioning her to a chair. "This is not asubject that we can dismiss in five minutes' talk. I must hearyour reasons. We will put aside all personal considerations. Iwill consider you just as an ordinary opponent."

His coldness chilled her to the heart. Was it always to be likethis? How could she possibly endure it? How was she to answer hisquestions how was she to vindicate her faith when the mere tone ofhis voice seemed to paralyze her heart? He was indeed treating herwith the cold formality of an opponent, but never for a singleinstant could she forget that he was her father the being she lovedbest in the whole world.

But Erica was brave and true; she knew that this was a crisis intheir lives, and, thrusting down her own personal pain, she forcedherself to give her whole heart and mind to the searching andperplexing questions with which her father intended to test thereality of her convictions. Had she been unaccustomed to his modeof attack he would have hopelessly silenced her, as far as argumentgoes in half an hour; but not only was Erica's faith perfectlyreal, but she had, as it were, herself traversed the whole of hisobjections and difficulties. Though far from imagining that sheunderstood everything, she had yet so firmly grasped the innermosttruth that all details as yet outside her vision were to her nolonger hindrances and bugbears, but so many new possibilities otherhopes of fresh manifestations of God.

She held her ground well, and every minute Raeburn realized morekeenly that whatever hopes he had entertained of reconvincing herwere futile. What made it all the more painful to him was that thethoroughness of the training he had given her now only told againsthim, and the argument which he carried on in a cold, metallic voicewas really piercing his very heart, for it was like arguing againstanother self, the dearest part of himself gone over to the enemy'sside.

At last he saw that argument was useless, and then, in his griefand despair, he did for a time lose his self-control. Erica hadoften felt sorry for the poor creatures who had to bear the bruntof her father's scathing sarcasm. But platform irony was a trifleto the torrent which bore down upon her today. When a strong mandoes lose his restraint upon himself, the result is terrific. Raeburn had never sufficiently cared for an adversary as to bemoved beyond an anger which could be restricted and held within duebounds; he of course cared more for the success of his cause andhis own dignity. But now his love drove him to despair; hisintolerable grief at the thought of having an opponent in his ownchild burst all restraining bonds. Wounded to the quick, he whohad never in his life spoken a harsh word to his child now pouredforth such a storm of anger, and sarcasm, and bitter reproach, asmight have made even an uninterested by-stander tremble.

Had Erica made any appeal, had she even begun to cry, his chivalrywould have been touched; he would have recognized her weakness, andregained his self control. But she was not weak, she was strongshe was his other self gone over to the opposite side; that waswhat almost maddened him. The torrent bore down upon her, and shespoke not a word, but just sat still and endured. Only, as thewords grew more bitter and more wounding, her lips grew white, herhands were locked more tightly together. At last it ended.

"You have cheated yourself into this belief," said Raeburn, "youhave given me the most bitter grief and disappointment of my wholelife. Have you anything else you wish to say to me?"

"Nothing," replied Erica, not daring to venture more; for, if shehad tried to speak, she knew she must have burst into tears.

But there was as much pain expressed in her voice as she spoke thatone word as there had been in all her father's outburst. Itappealed to him at once. He said no more, but stepped out of theFrench window, and began to pace to an fro under the veranda.

Erica did not stir; she was like one crushed. Sad and harassed asher life had been, it yet seemed to her that she had never knownsuch indescribably bitter pain. The outside world looked brightand sunshiny; she could see the waves breaking on the shore, whilebeyond, sailing out into the wide expanse was a brown-sailedfishing boat. Every now and then her vision was interrupted by atall, dark figure pacing to and fro; every now and then thesunlight glinted on snow-white hair, and then a fresh stab of painawoke in her heart.

The brown-sailed fishing boat dwindled into a tiny dark spot on thehorizon, the sea tossed and foamed and sparked in the sunshine. Erica turned away; she could not bear to look at it, for just nowit seemed to her merely the type of the terrible separation whichhad arisen between herself and her father. She felt as if she werebeing borne away in the little fishing boat, while he was left onthe land, and the distance between them slowly widened and widened.

All through that grievous conversation she had held in her hand alittle bit of mignonette. She had held it unconsciously; it waswithered and drooping, its sweetness seemed to her now sickly andhateful. She identified it with her pain, and years after thesmell of mignonette was intolerable to her. She would have thrownit away, but remembered that her father had given it her. Andthen, with the recollection of her birthday gift, came therealization of all the long years of unbroken and perfect love, sorudely interrupted today. Was it always to be like this? Mustthey drift further and further apart?

Her heart was almost breaking; she had endured to the veryuttermost, when at length comfort came. The sword had only come tobring the higher peace. No terrible sea of division could partthose whom love could bind together. The peace of God stole oncemore into her heart.

"How loud soe'er the world may roar,We know love will beconqueror."

Meanwhile Raeburn paced to and fro in grievous pain The fact thathis pain could scarcely perhaps have been comprehended by thegenerality of people did not make it less real or less hard tobear. A really honest atheist, who is convinced that Christianityis false and misleading, suffers as much at the sight of what heconsiders a mischievous belief as a Christian would suffer whilewatching a service in some heathen temple. Rather his pain wouldbe greater, for his belief in the gradual progress of his creed isshadowy and dim compared with the Christian's conviction that the"Saviour of all men" exists.

Once, some years before, a very able man, one of his most devotedfollowers, had "fallen back" into Christianity. That had been abitter disappointment; but that his own child whom he loved morethan anything in the world, should have forsaken him and gone overto the enemy, was a grief well-nigh intolerable. It was a grief hehad never for one moment contemplated.

Could anything be more improbable than that Erica, carefullytrained as she had been, should relapse so strangely? Her wholelife had been spent among atheists; there was not a singleobjection to Christianity which had not been placed before her. She had read much, thought much; she had worked indefatigably toaid the cause. Again and again she had braved personal insult andwounding injustice as an atheist. She had voluntarily gone intoexile to help her father in his difficulties. Through the shamefulinjustice of a Christian, she had missed the last years of hermother's life, and had been absent from her death bed. She hadborne on behalf of her father's cause a thousand irritatingprivations, a thousand harassing cares; she had been hard-working,and loyal, and devoted; and now all at once she had turnedcompletely round and placed herself in the opposing ranks!

Raeburn had all his life been fighting against desperate odds, andin the conflict he had lost well-nigh everything. He had lost hishome long ago, he had lost his father's good will, he had lost thewhole of his inheritance; he had lost health, and strength, andreputation, and money; he had lost all the lesser comforts of life;and now he said to himself that he was to lose his dearest treasureof all, his child.

Bitter, hopeless, life-long division had arisen between them. Fortwenty-three years he had loved her as truly as ever father lovedchild, and this was his reward! A miserable sense of isolationarose in his heart. Erica had been so much to him how could helive without her? The muscles of his face quivered with emotion;he clinched his hands almost fiercely.

Then he tortured himself by letting his thoughts wander back to thepast. That very day years ago, when he had first learned whatfatherhood meant; the pride of watching his little girl as theyears rolled on; the terrible anxiety of one long and dangerousillness she had passed through how well he remembered the time! They were very poor, could afford no expensive luxuries; he hadshared the nursing with his wife. One night he remembered toilingaway with his pen while the sick child was actually on his knee; healways fancied that the pamphlet he had then been at work on wasmore bitterly sarcastic than anything he had ever written. Then ononce more into years of desperately hard work and disappointinglysmall results, imbittered by persecution, crippled by penalties andnever-ending litigation; but always there had been the little childwaiting for him at home, who by her baby-like freedom from carecould make him smile when he was overwhelmed with anxiety. Howcould he ever have endured the bitter obloquy, the slanderousattacks, the countless indignities which had met him on all sides,if there had not been one little child who adored him, who followedhim about like a shadow, who loved him and trusted him utterly?

Busy as his life had been, burdened as he had been for years withtwice as much work as he could get through, the child had neverbeen crowded out of his life. Even as a little thing of four yearsold, Erica had been quite content to sit on the floor in his studyby the hour together, quietly amusing herself by cutting oldnewspapers into fantastic shapes, or by drawing impossible cats anddogs and horses on the margins. She had never disturbed him; sheused to talk to herself in whispers.

"Are you happy, little one?" he used to ask from time to time, witha sort of passionate desire that he should enjoy her unconsciouschildhood, foreseeing care and trouble for her in the future.

"Yes, very happy," had been the invariable response; and generallyErica would avail herself of the interruption to ask his opinionabout some square-headed cat, with eyes askew and an astonishingnumber of legs, which she had just drawn. Then would come what shecalled a "bear's hug," after which silence reigned again in thestudy, while Raeburn would go on writing some argumentativepamphlet, hard and clear as crystal, his heart warmed by the littlechild's love, the remains of a smile lingering about his lips atthe recollection of the square-headed cat.

And the years passed on, and every year deepened and strengthenedtheir love. And by slow degrees he had watched the development ofher mind; had gloried in her quick perception, had learned to cometo her for a second opinion every now and then; had felt proud ofher common sense, her thoughtful judgments; had delighted in herenthusiastic, loving help. All this was ended now. Strange that,just as he hoped most from her, she should fail him! It was arepetition of his own early history exactly reversed. His thoughtswent back to his father's study in the old Scottish parsonage. Heremembered a long, fierce argument; he remembered a storm ofabusive anger, and a furious dismissal from the house. The oldpain came back to him vividly.

"And she loves me fifty thousand times more than I ever loved myfather," he reflected. "And, though I was not abusive, I was hardon her. And, however mistaken, she was very brave, very honest. Oh, I was cruel to her harsh, and hateful! My little child! Mypoor little child! It shall not it cannot divide us. I am hers,and she is mine nothing can ever alter that."

He turned and went back into the room. Never had he looked granderthan at that minute; this man who could hold thousands inbreathless attention this man who was more passionately loved byhis friends, more passionately hated by his enemies than almost anyman in England! He was just the ideal father.

Erica had not stirred, she was leaning back in her chair, lookingvery still and white. He came close to her.

"Little son Eric!" he said, with a whole world of love in his tone.

She sprang up and wreathed her arms round his neck.

By and by, they began to talk in low tones, to map out and piecetogether as well as they could the future life, which wasinevitably severed from the past by a deep gulf. They spoke of thework which they could still share, of the interests they shouldstill have in common. It was very sad work for Erica infinitelysadder for Raeburn; but they were both of them brave and noblesouls, and they loved each other, and so could get above thesadness. One thing they both agreed upon. They would never argueabout their opinions. They would, as far as possible, avoid anyallusion to the grave differences that lay between them.

Late in the afternoon, a little group of fishermen and idlers stoodon the beach. They were looking out seaward with some "anxiety,for a sudden wind had arisen, and there was what they called 'anugly sea.'"

"I tell you it was madness to let 'em go alone on such a day,"said the old sailor with the telescope.

"And I tell you that the old gentleman pulls as good an oar as anyof us," retorted another man, in a blue jersey and a sou'wester.

"God forbid!" exclaimed the first speaker, lowering his telescopefor a moment. "Why, he be mighty friendly to us fishermen."

"Where be they now, gaffer? D'ye see them?" asked a keen-lookinglad of seventeen.

"Ay, there they be! There they be! God have mercy on 'em! They'll be swamped sure as fate!"

The coast guardsman, with provoked sang-froid and indifference,began to sing:

"For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone alo-o-ft."

And then breaking off into a sort of recitative.

"Which is exactly the opposite quarter to what Luke Raeburn's soulwill go, I guess."

"Blowed if I wouldn't pull an oar to save a mate, if I were somighty sure he was going to the devil!" observed a weather-beatenseaman, with gold earrings and a good deal of tattooing on hisbrawny arms.